Becoming Someone
by Eledhwen
Summary: What turned Angel from a tramp into a demon killer? Read on and find out.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:** not mine, Joss's - you know the drill.  
  
**Author's note:** This is a filling-in-the-gap exercise, between the moment in BtVS season 2, __Becoming_, part 1, where Angel asserts to Whistler, "I want to be someone", and BtVS season 1, _Welcome to the Hellmouth_, where the two of them meet. What happened during that period of time which turned Angel from a brooding tramp into a brooding lean, mean, fighting machine? You're about to find out.   
  
----  
  
"Come on in." He stood on the threshold and met the demon's eyes with his own. "C'mon, I have to pay heating bills," Whistler prompted. "In. Now."   
  
Slowly, reluctantly, Angel stepped through the doorway and Whistler closed the door behind him.   
  
"Welcome to my place. Lounge, kitchen over there, bedroom, you'll have this couch. Okay?"   
  
"It's … I …" Angel stammered, focusing on his hands. Really filthy fingernails, he noticed idly, one corner of his mind stacking the information away.   
  
"Hungry?" Whistler shed his jacket and opened the fridge. "I got supplies. Pig okay?" He held up a plastic bag, bulging with red liquid. Angel averted his eyes. "Pig okay then. Hot? Cold? Somewhere in between? Come on, man, I'm a demon, not a vamp. Haven't a clue how you like this stuff."   
  
"It'll … just …" Angel looked up, finally. "I'll take it as it comes."   
  
Whistler threw the bag underarm and his guest caught it automatically and turned away. There was a sound of ripping plastic and then a mixture of swallowing and growling, and when Angel turned around again he was holding an empty bag.   
  
"Thank you."   
  
"Hey, no problem. Just, next time, go and get it yourself." Whistler adjusted his hat. "Right, now you are taking a shower. And I am burning those clothes - is that really an anorak? I always had you down as the kind of guy who liked to dress well."   
  
Angel glanced down at his jacket. "I … once I did. But I'm not that person anymore."   
  
"Man," said Whistler with emphasis, "that's a stupid way of talking. You're a good-looking guy. You want to impress that little Slayer, you need to change your wardrobe." He pushed open a door and beckoned for Angel to follow him. "I got you some stuff to start with. Just a shirt and pants. We can go and find you more tomorrow night." He held open another door. "Shower. Soap. Shampoo. Towels."   
  
Angel stared in apparent confusion at the array of plastic bottles.   
  
"Shower?" Whistler said.   
  
"We only had baths," Angel returned.   
  
"What, you haven't washed in a century? No wonder you smell so bad."   
  
"No - I … that is …" the vampire shook his head. "You don't want to know. I turn the tap, is that it?"   
  
"Just don't flood the place," Whistler said, and went out.   
  
Angel stood alone in the bathroom and stared at the empty mirror for a moment, and then he went back into Whistler's astonishingly untidy bedroom and started to take off the anonymous, dirty, brown clothing he was wearing. Anorak, jumper, shirt, trousers; boots that showed his toes and socks that were barely holding together. Slowly Angel piled them up on the floor and stared down at himself, a pale, thin body that was still unblemished, unmarked. He vaguely remembered that he had had a tattoo marked on his shoulder, once, long ago, and he twisted to try and see it and failed.   
  
He gave the clothes a last glance and went into the bathroom again, standing in the shower stall and carefully, cautiously turning the shining chrome tap. Water, steaming and strong, gushed out, and Angel switched it off again with a start. Then he tried again, and closed his eyes under the stream. Years of grime began to fall off. He reached for the soap and carefully, methodically washed himself from head to toe and then from toe to head before picking up a bottle of shampoo. It smelt of coconut and sunshine, its pale yellow colour reminding Angel of days gone by, and he squeezed some of the sticky gel on to his hand and massaged it into his tangled hair. It did not seem to have grown at all, the broken ends still brushing his shoulders as they had done for two and a half centuries. He washed greyish foam out and started again, and followed the shampoo with creamy conditioner, and then stood with water streaming down his face. He felt like he wanted to cry and laugh, scream, break something or kill someone. He did not know what had happened. But one image kept flickering across the jets of water; a girl with blonde hair and big, frightened eyes.   
  
Eventually Angel turned off the shower and wrapped a towel around himself, revelling in the soft texture and clean smell. He dried himself slowly and carefully and after a moment to examine them, put on the clothes which Whistler had got him. The black shirt and black jeans turned out to be a perfect fit, and Angel's mouth turned downwards in a frown. What was controlling him?   
  
He searched for, and eventually found, a comb in the bathroom, and began methodically to pull it through hair that had been tangled and knotted with grime and the blood of countless rodents for decades, the gentle teasing of the teeth soothing him. He dried his hair and combed it again and wondered whether to tie it back, fiddling unconsciously with the claddagh ring on his finger. In a second the feel of the cold metal on his skin threw all thoughts of hairstyle out of his mind. Angel gazed down at the ring, remembering a summer's day centuries before, and a rolling green meadow looking over the sea; a rug and a picnic basket and the auburn tresses of his sister.   
  
_- Happy Birthday, Liam. Rosemary held out a box wrapped in silk and ribbons and smiled her angelic smile back at him. Go on, open it.   
  
- You spoil me, Rosie. He grinned cheerfully back and pulled off the wrapping, and opened the box. Oh, sister. Thank you, darlin'.   
  
- I thought you probably wouldn't find a girl soon enough to give you one, and in any case I love you more than any other girl could.   
  
- Sure you do. He leant over and kissed her on the cheek. I'll let you know when I find someone I can turn it for.   
  
Rosie slipped the silver ring on his finger.   
  
- I'm sure I'll love her._   
  
Angel, his eyes filling with tears, took the ring off and slowly turned it round. With the heart facing inwards he put it back on.   
  
"You'd love her, Rosie," he whispered to himself.   
  
"You finished?" Whistler leant on the doorway, watching Angel. "Hell, that's a difference. Slayer might look at you now. Still … the hair doesn't do anything for ya."   
  
Angel put a hand up and felt his damp locks.   
  
"Thought about having it shorter?" Whistler suggested. "Short's fashionable these days. I could call a barber for you." Angel stared blankly at him. "Have it cut?" the demon repeated. "Gee, you're dazed, ain't you? Not really with it?"   
  
"I … I've been alone a long time," Angel said. "If you think … I mean, do what you want. It's your place. Please. Don't mind me."   
  
Whistler shook his head and clicked his tongue between his teeth. "That's not the way it works, son. Deal is, I find you and help you get back on those feet of yours. Not that I do everything for you. You gotta learn to look after yourself again."   
  
Angel stared at him. "I never looked after myself," he said. "I … there were people around …"   
  
"But you told them what to do, right? Where to go, who to kill? You sure as hell didn't get that reputation for nothing, Angelus. Tell yourself what to do."   
  
"Angel. It's Angel."   
  
"There. That's a good start." Whistler straightened up. "Haircut?"   
  
* * *   
  
The hairdresser took off his coat and set down a metal case, flicking it open expertly.   
  
"Where's the customer, Whist?"   
  
"Hiding in the bedroom," Whistler said resignedly. "He's kind of shy."   
  
"Odd for you to get a shy client," the hairdresser commented.   
  
"Pro bono. Powers."   
  
"Oh, gee. That sucks. What's the deal?"   
  
"You heard of Angelus?"   
  
"Oooh." The hairdresser nodded, enthusiastically. "Big-shot vamp in Europe."   
  
"He's the one hiding in the bedroom," said Whistler, and watched his visitor's reaction.   
  
The hairdresser stood up from checking his case, eyebrows raised, and shook his head. "Man, I don't do vampires. That whole reflection thing - it just doesn't work. You try cutting someone's hair when you can't see the effect. No way." He paused. "And I want to stay alive - I'm doing Bette Davis this evening."   
  
"He won't bite," Whistler reassured. "He's a wreck. Got ensouled a century ago and since then he's been moping around Manhattan. He won't be the one to bite, but I'll get annoyed if you don't do this. You owe me a favour."   
  
"You'll owe me a bigger one," the hairdresser grumbled. "Angelus, man. C'mon!"   
  
"He's quite good-looking," Whistler added, lightly.   
  
The hairdresser looked at the demon for a moment, and then shrugged. "You got me. But now you owe me. Where is he?"   
  
Angel was fiddling with his ring again but looked up as Whistler and the hairdresser came in and switched the light on.   
  
"Image change," said Whistler.   
  
"I … are you sure this is a good idea?" asked Angel.   
  
"Hey, I can understand you not appreciating Whistler's style sense," the hairdresser said, "but those ends have got to be split. How long since you had it cut?"   
  
"It never needed cutting," Angel said. "It's always been like this."   
  
The hairdresser rolled his eyes and then rolled up his sleeves. "All right. Now I'm not going to sit you in front of a mirror because I hate looking at nothing. Grab a chair, under the light."   
  
He pulled out scissors and a comb and draped a towel around Angel's shoulders.   
  
"I'm Ken."   
  
"Angel."   
  
"So I heard. Now, let's have a look …" Ken picked up the ends of Angel's hair and examined them. "Hmmm. Like the colour. Nice. But this stuff is dry. What've you been using?"   
  
"Using?"   
  
"Shampoo? Treatment? Conditioner?"   
  
"I used to wash it with soap."   
  
"Ruins the hair, man. Ruins it."   
  
"There wasn't anything else."   
  
"This is the twentieth century. Now, I'm going to cut it short, and what do you think about a little texture on top? Perhaps some gel and you can style it - can you style it?"   
  
"I don't know."   
  
Ken sighed theatrically and started snipping the length off the back. "Okay. Leave it to me. Been in LA long?"   
  
"Two nights."   
  
"Been in the States long?"   
  
"Eighty years."   
  
"Guessed it was a while. The accent. Lack of an accent. Where're you from originally? I must have read it somewhere."   
  
"Galway. Ireland."   
  
Hair fell to the floor. "Ireland. Beautiful country, I hear."   
  
Angel smiled shortly. "It is."   
  
"And you've been to Europe. I remember reading that. Paris, Prague, Italy … you must've seen everything."   
  
"You read about me?"   
  
Ken moved around to Angel's side and cut off chunks of hair. "I do a bit of work for Whistler when he has a client. I'm good at shaping around horns and bumpy scalps. In this business it helps to know stuff. I've read the major volumes; Goodstow's Demon Compendium, the Encyclopaedia of the Underworld, Vampires of the sixteenth to nineteenth centuries, so on. You were in a few. Man, you were big."   
  
"I was a devil," Angel said bitterly.   
  
"Hell, you're a vamp."   
  
"That doesn't excuse what I did."   
  
Ken cut hair in silence for a while. "Ya know, I met a good few humans who did some pretty bad stuff. They never had your excuse. You gotta stop feeling guilty."   
  
"But every time I close my eyes I hear them all screaming," Angel said. "I can't atone for that."   
  
"I'm just going to put some gel in," Ken said, changing the subject. "This stuff." He displayed a round tin. "You should probably get some. I've cut it short so it'll stand up on top if you gel it." He got to work, practised fingers teasing dark hair on end. "There." He turned. "Hey, Whist. Come and have a look."   
  
Whistler came in and together they scrutinised Angel, and finally the demon nodded.   
  
"You might find that Slayer'll talk to you. Nice job, Ken."   
  
"Thanks." Ken packed his things away and held out his hand to Angel. "Sorry you can't see yourself, man. Hey, and good luck."   
  
After a pause, Angel took the outstretched hand and carefully shook it. "Thank you."   
  
* * *   
  
Angel lay awake on Whistler's couch, the curtains closed, unable to sleep. He turned and rearranged the blankets, and then turned again, and finally swung his legs over the edge of the couch and buried his face in his hands. He tried to close his ears to the faint voices in his mind, but failed, and stood up looking longingly at the curtains. For a second all he wanted was to tear them down and stand in the glorious Californian sunshine, and wash himself away; but he remembered the Slayer and turned away to the kitchen.   
  
The fridge was humming to itself, merrily, and Angel stared at it and then opened it slowly. The row of glistening plastic bags of blood met his eyes, and he bent, hypnotised, and picked one up. In his hand it moved gently, beguilingly, and he raised it to his mouth, bit off the corner, and swallowed. It was cold and glutinous, but it was human, and the taste of life ran down his throat easily, spilling into starved veins.   
  
Angel finished the bag and put it in the bin and turned away. And then, as if drawn, he opened the fridge again and took out another bag. Another, and another, followed the first too, and now he was drinking quickly and his features had changed. He drank more and more, and then he reached in and there was nothing left.   
  
He slammed the door shut so hard the noise ricocheted through the apartment, and turned in a blind, blood-red haze, hitting the table. It smashed under his kicks and fists into a thousand tiny pieces.   
  
"Hey!" Whistler's voice pressed at the edge of Angel's conscience. "Hey! That's my ..." The demon ducked to avoid a piece of flying plate. "Angel. Angelus! Stop it."   
  
Angel turned, the haze still heavy, hearing not the words but a heartbeat. Fangs bared, he moved towards Whistler, who took a step backwards and held out his hands.   
  
"Gee … hey man, stop that. Calm down."   
  
Angel let out a low growl. Whistler backed up against the door.   
  
"I'm a demon. I'm not good to eat. Honest. Best staying away from me." Angel was within touching distance, and Whistler looked around frantically for something to hit him with. The yellow eyes stared at him, and then he felt a grip on his arm and closed his eyes. There was a sharp prick on his neck, and he cursed the Powers That Be heartily.   
  
Then the pressure was gone, and Angel was curled up on the floor shaking silently. Whistler took out a handkerchief and pressed it against the wound on his neck before crossing to the kitchen and taking in the empty bags with a glance. He went back to Angel.   
  
"Angel. Get a grip."   
  
There was no answer. The vampire rocked, his head covered by his arms. Whistler took his wrists and forced the arms away from Angel's head.   
  
"Angel, shut up and look at me." Two brown eyes stared up at him for a moment and then dropped again. "You're okay. I'm okay, thank God. We're all okay here. So you flipped. They said this might happen."   
  
"I was so hungry." The words were almost inaudible. "I was so hungry."   
  
"Well, it's been a while since you fed properly."   
  
"I just wanted … I wanted to kill something. Anything."   
  
"You killed the table, if that helps," Whistler commented. "Very efficiently."   
  
"I wanted to kill you."   
  
"Newsflash, buddy; I'm an immortal demon. You ain't gonna kill me easily." He refrained from mentioning that having his blood drained would have killed him quite well enough. "Sit up and stop that shaking, you're like a big kid. Want some water?"   
  
"Yes." Angel half sat up, his head still bowed. "Yes. Please."   
  
Whistler fetched him a glass of water, and Angel drank it and gave it back to him and hugged his knees to his chest. The demon stared down at his guest.   
  
"You wanna see someone? Talk to someone?"   
  
"I want to kill something," Angel said. "I've got … I'm scared if I don't then I'll lose." Whistler scratched his head and wondered what the translation was. "I've been alone, I stayed away from people, because I can't control it."   
  
"The demon?"   
  
Angel nodded, still shaking.   
  
Going to the window, Whistler twitched the curtain aside and checked the light, and turned back to the vampire.   
  
"You'll have to wait, it's still light. How's about we decide on a training programme for you? I can't see you killing anything just now." He found a pad and a pen and sat on the sofa. "I've been told to get you into shape in a month. So we have seven nights a week, and the daytime if I can get you out and about. You'll need some sort of martial art. Fencing. Go to the gym, get some muscle on you. And there's this thing called t'ai chi … someone said it was good for self-control."   
  
"It's a Chinese art," Angel said unexpectedly. "I … I tried it a little, just after … after the curse. It might help."   
  
Whistler made a note. "I got some friends who can help out with the other stuff. We'll go tonight and see people. Now, if you take sleeping pills can you sleep?"   
  
* * *   
  
The hall was long and dark, lit only with one fluorescent tube hanging high overhead. A smell of sweat and wax filled the air, and the only sound was that of Angel and Whistler's footsteps on the wooden floorboards. They paused outside a door, and Whistler knocked sharply.   
  
A slim, slight man came out into the big hall, grinning broadly. "Whistler!"   
  
"Hey, Ralph." The man and the demon shook hands. "Angel, this is Ralph. He teaches fencing. A little for the movies, a lot for competition. Ralph, Angel. He needs to learn to fence and use a quarterstaff as quickly as possible."   
  
Ralph held out his hand and Angel took it briefly. "Have you fenced before?" the man asked.   
  
"A little."   
  
"Epée? Sabre?"   
  
"Epée, and I had a little broadsword experience," Angel said. "It's been a while. I don't really remember."   
  
The fencing master gave Angel a sharp look but simply nodded, and turned to the wall where he unlocked a case and drew out a long, thin sword and passed it to Angel. A padded top and a helmet followed the sword, and while Angel put them on Ralph kitted himself out too and selected a sword for himself.   
  
Whistler leant against the wall and watched as Ralph grasped the hilt of his sword, and, after a pause, Angel followed suit. Then the fencing master attacked, suddenly and sharply. Angel reacted just quickly enough to miss the blow and to parry the next. Ralph moved gracefully, the sword nothing more than an extension of his arm; Angel seemed awkward under the padding and the mask. After five minutes, Ralph stopped and stood back, breathing a little hard.   
  
"Good. Good. There's potential, definitely. You move quickly, which is good. Any questions?"   
  
"Can I … can I take off this mask?" Angel asked. "I can't see properly. I never used to use … this padding, it feels strange."   
  
Ralph nodded. "It's your call. It's risky, though; if I touch you."   
  
"It doesn't matter." Angel unbuckled the protection and put it carefully on the ground, and they began again. This time, Whistler watched the concentration on the vampire's face, and the increasing confidence as he parried and lunged, his movements ever quicker and stronger under the comments of the teacher. Eventually Ralph lowered his blade and took off his own mask, nodding.   
  
"Very good. How many lessons do you want a week?"   
  
Angel looked at Whistler.   
  
"Two?" the demon suggested.   
  
"I'll have to go and have a look in my diary," Ralph said. "Whistler?"   
  
"Wait here," Whistler said to Angel, who nodded silently; and he followed Ralph into his little office.   
  
The master pulled out a book and opened it, eyeing Whistler as he did so. "You're not telling me everything. I know you better than you think. Is this one of your protégés?"   
  
"He was forced on me," Whistler protested. "Yeah."   
  
"And he's not human, is he? Or at any rate, not entirely. He moves too fast. Look at me. I'm dripping here, but he barely broke a sweat."   
  
"Vampire," Whistler confessed. "Of the cursed variety."   
  
Ralph nodded. "I thought so. Angel … Angelus. Hence the broadsword comment. Interesting. Then I take it you want lessons at night?"   
  
By three in the morning, they had visited all of Whistler's contacts and arranged lessons or training sessions. Before going back to the demon's apartment, they paused at a gloomy cellar bar where Whistler ordered a beer and a pint of O+, pushing the latter in front of his companion. "That's all you're getting. They won't allow breakages in here, it's a neutral bar. How're you feeling?"   
  
Angel gripped the glass but did not lift it. "Tired. That's not unusual."   
  
"Give it time, man. You've not eaten properly for years. With a bit of time and some training you'll be feeling better in a coupla weeks." Whistler raised his glass. "Cheers."   
  
Angel nodded, and picked up his own drink. "Slàinte." 


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1_  
  
----  
  
Whistler stood in the doorway of his bedroom and watched the sleeping vampire with a soft, almost sad expression on his sharp features. In the corner the television flickered silently; some talk show. Angel moved in his sleep, abruptly, turning over, his lips forming words that nobody could hear.   
  
The demon crossed the living room and switched his kettle on, his mind on his task.   
  
_- He has to be made useful_, they had told him. _He's far too valuable to be wasting away on the streets of that city. Find him. Turn him into a warrior._   
  
Whistler spooned coffee into a mug and remembered his response.   
  
_- He'll be a wreck. You really think this can be done, you're dumber than I thought._ They had laughed, and smiled, and sent him away.   
  
He stirred the coffee, and perched on the edge of the counter, watching Angel toss on the couch, and in his mind made a list of things that still needed to be done; that they needed to do together. Sighing, he turned off the kitchen light and went to work in his bedroom.   
  
Angel woke with a start from another bloody dream, indistinguishable from so many others. He sat up and stared around him, aware first of the unfamiliar surroundings, the blueish light from the soap opera on the television; and then his hunger kicked in. It gnawed his stomach, as it had done for decades, only now he knew blood was within reach. He stood up, letting the blanket fall to the floor, and crossed to the fridge. A hand out, the door opened, and he took a bag out and closed the door quickly. He studied the blood for a moment, and then slowly put the bag down on the counter where it lay wobbling gently like a large, glutinous jelly, and found a mug in a cupboard.   
  
Eyeing the microwave, Angel dismissed it as too complicated and tore open the bag. Immediately the metallic smell hit his nostrils, but he resisted and poured the blood into the mug, throwing away the empty bag before lifting it to his lips. And then he drank, the precious liquid slipping down his throat. When he had finished, he put the mug in the sink and washed away the sticky residue, turning it upside down once it was clean, and walked away from the kitchen.   
  
Sitting down again on the couch, Angel put his head in his hands and shook, gritting his teeth not to get up and go back. Inside his demon was fighting for dominance, whispering to his soul to get up and drink again - or to open a door and walk through to Whistler, and capture the small demon, to bend back his neck and break the skin …   
  
Angel clenched his fists and dug his nails into his palms, trying to conjure up a vision in his mind of soft golden hair and big, innocent eyes. The longing subsided. He thought of full lips frowning in worry and confusion and fear, and remembered his desire to help.   
  
The hunger faded.   
  
"You're awake." Whistler's voice startled him out of his reverie and he looked up.   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Sleep well?"   
  
"No."   
  
"You will, one day soon. Look, Angel, I've been working on some stuff. All those classes aren't free, and I ain't rich. You got any funds?"   
  
"Funds?"   
  
"Money. Property. Whatever."   
  
Angel frowned. "I did. I left my things in a warehouse before coming to America. I had a lawyer to look after my account. I don't know what happened to it."   
  
"Call them."   
  
"What?"   
  
"Telephone?" Whistler said, enunciating clearly. "You dial a number and you talk to people in other places?"   
  
"I don't know how to use one. Or which number," Angel objected. "Or if they still have my money. It's been nearly a century, Whistler."   
  
Whistler brought the phone over. "This is easy, Angel. You pick up this receiver and hold it to your ear. Then you dial a number by pressing these buttons." He dialled. "Hi. Yeah, I need a number in London, England. It's … hold a sec, will ya?" He hissed at Angel. "Lawyer?"   
  
Angel looked blank. "Erm … Seward and Sons."   
  
"Seward and Sons," Whistler repeated. "It's a law firm. Okay …" he scribbled numbers. "Thanks." He put the phone down. "They still exist. Call them."   
  
"What?" Angel's face was flabbergasted.   
  
"Call them. Get back your funds. You ain't gonna survive on nothing, Angel. You're gonna need a place to live, food, clothes. Call them." He handed Angel the phone.   
  
Angel took it with suddenly clammy hands and Whistler passed him the number. Tentatively, Angel dialled it, pressing the buttons slowly, and started when the dial tone sounded in his ear. He waited, and just as he was hoping that there would be no answer, a crisp, cool female voice sounded in his ear, a clear English accent flying through the air.   
  
"Seward and Sons lawyers. How can I help you?"   
  
"I'd like to speak to someone about regaining control of some funds," Angel said, trying to muster some confidence.   
  
"Certainly, sir. Who is your lawyer?"   
  
Angel hesitated. "I'm afraid I'm not sure. The funds belonged to an ancestor of mine. I believe his lawyer was named Henry Seward. It was back at the turn of the century."   
  
There was the sound of a computer tapping. "Your ancestor's name, sir?"   
  
"Riley. Liam Riley."   
  
"Thank you, sir. I'll just see if one of the partners is free to talk to you. Hold the line, please."   
  
Tinny violin music sounded down the receiver and Angel listened, perplexed. Then it broke off again and was replaced by a firm male voice. "Philip Seward speaking. I understand you'd like to investigate the funds of a former client?"   
  
"I'd like them b … I believe I have a right to them," Angel said. "His name was Liam Riley, he was an ancestor of mine."   
  
"We would need strong documentary proof of the relationship," Philip Seward said. "Unless … that is …" papers rustled, "unless you can answer a few questions."   
  
"I can try."   
  
"Understand this is not entirely a usual case," the lawyer said, "and I have papers about it written by my own ancestor. Firstly, I need the other name of Liam Riley."   
  
"Angelus," Angel said, without hesitation.   
  
"Place of birth."   
  
"Galway, Ireland."   
  
"Where the material effects are stored."   
  
"They were … in a warehouse in Shoreditch," Angel said, eventually, dragging memories up. "A mile from the river. In wooden cases and three large metal-bound trunks marked A. They were put there in March 1902 and entrusted to your firm's care until such time as they be collected." He paused. "You were to look after them until March 2002, or in the event of the collapse of your firm, to hand them to another reliable party until the same date. At that time you could auction them off."   
  
"Any items of particular note?"   
  
Angel closed his eyes and thought. "A painting by Monet, of a street in Paris. Signed first edition of Baudelaire's _Les Fleurs du Mal_. Clothes. A case of weaponry dating from the eighteenth century. Chippendale furniture. Ming china, especially a large vase."   
  
More papers rustled, and the lawyer in England coughed. "One last question." His voice seemed strangely strained. "I have a date of birth here. A year."   
  
"1753," said Angel. "Mr Seward kept good records."   
  
"Evidently." Philip Seward seemed to be a little choked. "I … all the records match up. My ancestor left one note. He asked that for recognition, a sketch of the tattoo be forwarded to the office. Or a photograph, nowadays."   
  
"That can be done," Angel said. "When do you want it by? Could I have your address?"   
  
"Write to me as soon as possible," Philip Seward said. "Enclose the picture, a signature, and details of the bank to which you wish the funds to be transferred, and an address for delivery of the effects. Please don't mention this to anyone, sir. I will deal with everything personally." He dictated an address, which Angel copied down carefully. "It's a pleasure doing business." He put the phone down.   
  
Angel was left holding his receiver helplessly. "I can't hear anything."   
  
"He's hung up. Any luck?" Whistler glanced at the address. "Gave you a pop quiz, didn't he?"   
  
"I think they left records," Angel said, dazed. "I first used that firm before … before I was cursed. I … I threatened the man I spoke to then. They kept the records."   
  
His companion shrugged. "Plenty more people know about the underworld than we peaceful demons would like to believe, Angel. My bet is your firm has some dealing with the Watchers too. Anyways you've got your dough."   
  
"I have money."   
  
"Yeah, and you'll need it."   
  
* * *   
  
_Three weeks later_   
  
Angel let the bar drop, the weights on the end resting on the floor, and his instructor ticked off something on his list.   
  
"How did that feel?"   
  
"Fine." Angel reached for his bottle and drank some of the water in it.   
  
"I don't know if we have anything heavier. I could tie cans or something to the bar. You think you can lift more?"   
  
"Probably."   
  
"Jeez, Angel, man. Nobody's ever lifted that much. It'd take three of us."   
  
"I'm not one of you."   
  
"I noticed. Come on, leg press. How's the rest of your training coming along?"   
  
The vampire slotted the peg into the bottom hole of the press and eased the weights up with no apparent effort. "Good."   
  
_Ralph lunged, ducked, parried, lunged again … always too slow for his lithe, tall opponent who was almost too quick to see moving. He paused, and drew back.   
  
- It's useless. He pulled off his mask. I'm too slow. I'm not good enough to teach you anything more.   
  
- Of course you are, Angel protested, resting the tip of his sword on the ground.   
  
- I'm not. You'll beat anything out there, my friend. Ralph held out his hand. Good luck, Angelus._  
  
Angel pushed the press down again.   
  
_He crossed the floor to the diminutive Chinese woman and waited for her to straighten and look at him.   
  
- I've come to say thank you.   
  
- You're leaving my class?   
  
- I feel I've found what I was looking for, Angel clarified. I'm in control. Thank you.   
  
- You deserve your peace, the teacher said, returning his bow. Good luck._   
  
He wiped the seat down and moved to the next piece of equipment, moving the next peg down to the bottom weight, and settling into the rhythm again.   
  
_- If you would only take the exams, you could be a black belt, his karate teacher admonished. Why leave now?   
  
- Because I don't want a belt, Angel said, with a slight smile. I needed confidence. I have it.   
  
- It's a terrible waste of talent, his teacher said, resigned. But it's your choice. Good luck._   
  
He picked up his towel and the bottle of water and turned to his instructor.   
  
"Thank you, Mike. You helped a lot."   
  
"You're going?"   
  
"I have to. I have to do things alone. I'll keep in touch and come back if I need you again."   
  
His trainer sighed, and nodded. "Okay. Seein' as how we've run out of weights for ya, I guess it's for the best. Look after yourself, old guy. I'll miss ya. Not often I get a chance to do somethin' for good."   
  
Angel smiled briefly. "It's my first chance, and I'm not going to make a mess of it, I swear. Thank you."   
  
"Hey, no problem. Good luck, Ang."   
  
Angel nodded, and went to change.   
  
Outside, the cool night air blowing on the nape of his neck, he reflected on the kind words and kind hearts of those who had helped him get this far. Angel looked up at the night-time lights of the city and for the first time in eighty years felt almost happy.   
  
He put his hands in the pockets of the new coat he and Whistler had gone out and bought, and adjusted the strap of the bag over his shoulder. It was a half-hour walk back to the demon's apartment, but Angel now felt safe again and enjoyed the night air in his empty lungs, and the buzz of the people around him. As long as he kept moving and did not get too close, he found, he could control the demon inside him.   
  
He paused, his thoughts freezing. Was that a scream? Was it in his head or ringing still in his ears? A car rushed by, horn blaring … no, there it was again. High, terrified screaming.   
  
Angel stood still and tried to block the noise out. Would they never leave him? Then, as he listened, new resolve crept into his body, into his heart, and he turned a corner and began to run towards the sound.   
  
The voice screamed again. Angel felt in a pocket as he ran, certain he had a stake hidden on his body somewhere. He rounded a corner and skidded to a halt, staring horrified at the scene presenting itself to him.   
  
The girl was struggling wildly and bravely, her blonde hair loose from its chignon, but her feeble kicks were nothing against the vampire who held her tightly, head bent over an exposed vein in her neck. Angel dropped his bag and, clutching his stake, moved towards them.   
  
"Hey!" he called.   
  
The vampire straightened and glared at him with yellow eyes. "Piss off."   
  
"Leave the girl alone."   
  
"Going to make me?"   
  
Angel stared at the other vampire, and then carefully allowed his own features to shift. He bared his fangs.   
  
"Going to stop me making you?"   
  
The vampire had forgotten his prey now, and advanced on Angel.   
  
"This is my territory, newbie."   
  
Angel examined the vampire and aged him at less than a century.   
  
"Who are you calling new, fledgling? Don't know who I am?"   
  
The other vampire roared and launched himself at Angel, who sidetracked the onslaught and swept his leg round. The hours of training kicked in; the fitness was paying off; he was in control. In less than a minute he had the other vampire on the floor, stake poised above his chest, and he bent, grinning at his defeated opponent.   
  
"The name's Angelus. Don't forget it." He plunged the stake in and stood up, dusting ashes off his clothes.   
  
The girl on the floor whimpered softly, and Angel forced control over the demon, breathing in un-needed air and concentrating hard before crossing to her and helping her off the ground. She looked weak and pale. He pressed his handkerchief to her wound, staunching the blood and removing temptation, and lifted her up.   
  
He waited in the small shop with her until the ambulance came and carried her off, and then walked slowly the rest of the way back to Whistler's apartment.   
  
Whistler put the phone down and turned to him.   
  
"Where've you been? Mike said you left an hour ago. I've been worried sick."   
  
Angel dropped his bag. "I saved a life."   
  
"You did what?" Whistler said.   
  
"I dusted a fledgling. There was a girl … she's gone to hospital. She's alive."   
  
Whistler stared for a moment, and then a grin spread across his face and he punched the big vampire on the arm playfully. "Hey. Well done. How did it feel?"   
  
"Easy." Angel brushed some forgotten dust off his shoulder. "So easy. Good."   
  
"Which bit?" asked Whistler.   
  
"All of it," Angel replied, after a pause. "I mean, the fight, the kill, that was … it's been a while. But when that girl said thank you …" he shook his head in amazement. "Someone trusted me."   
  
"Not bad, big guy," Whistler said approvingly. Angel returned his smile hesitantly. "Not bad," Whistler repeated.   
  
* * *   
  
The vampire went flying across the cemetery into a headstone.   
  
"I really don't want to be here," the Slayer said, running after him, "but seeing as I'm here and you're here how do you feel about dying?"   
  
The vampire struggled to its feet and tried to attack again. Buffy Summers plunged a stake into its chest and stood looking down at the dust, brushing some off her puffy orange jacket with a sad little smile.   
  
"That's good work," her Watcher said, standing up from the bench he had been watching from. "Well done. It's improving, Miss Summers."   
  
"I told you to call me Buffy," the Slayer said, putting her stake away. "So what if it's improving? I don't care. I told you that. I don't want to be the Slayer."   
  
She turned, sticking her hands in her pocket.   
  
From his hidden vantage point, Angel's heart bled silent tears for her. She had improved. She had improved a hundred times over in a month. Yet her sadness was still there, her beautiful eyes were ringed with grey. She was so young, so perfect … he frowned at his thoughts. He felt for her. He felt like he knew her already, after only a few nights of watching from the shadows.   
  
The Slayer walked away, and after a pause and a heavy sigh, her Watcher trotted to catch up. Angel listened to their voices fading and stood up to walk away in the other direction.   
  
The vampire jumped him from behind, tackling him to the ground and growling something unintelligible in his ear. Angel rolled, taking the other vampire with him, and stood up with a stake in his hand.   
  
They faced each other. Angel felt the demon inside him fighting to come out, and decided to let it. His face transformed and he bared his teeth at the other vampire.   
  
"Go or you'll die," Angel said, meaning it.   
  
"Oh yeah? And who are you, mate, trespassing on my patch?"   
  
"My name's Angelus," Angel returned.   
  
"Pull the other one," the vampire said mockingly. "You can't be Angelus, he's dead. Been dead for years."   
  
"And that's where you're wrong," said Angel, and attacked.   
  
* * *   
  
"So how's the Slayer?" Whistler asked.   
  
Angel hung his coat up carefully. "She's … wonderful."   
  
Whistler raised his eyebrows. "You got it bad, Angel."   
  
"I've never seen anything like her," Angel admitted. "I remember … Spike killed a Slayer once. I saw her before that, a Chinese girl. Pretty. Fast. But she was nothing, nothing compared to …"   
  
"To Buffy?" Whistler smiled. "She's cute. Who's Spike?"   
  
Angel crossed to the fridge and took out a bag of blood. "Spike … Spike was - is, I suppose - Spike is my grandchilde. Will." He tore the bag open and watched as the contents trickled into a mug. "Drusilla found him. He should never have been turned. Drusilla should never have been turned." Angel pressed buttons on the microwave, the mug turning slowly. "He was cocky, clever, insufferable. I loved him and hated him. I was jealous of him the night he killed the Slayer, and afraid he'd find out what had happened to me. Before I'd have been … angry, and pleased, and proud he'd listened to my teaching." The microwave bleeped. Angel took the mug out. "I've no idea if they're still alive. I don't care." He grinned suddenly at Whistler. "It's true. I don't care. All that matters is the Slayer, now."   
  
* * *   
  
They stood in the warehouse and watched as boxes were unloaded off a lorry into the cool darkness. Covered in labels and splashes of paint, the crates were battered but intact. Angel walked over to the biggest and ran his hand over a faded label on the side, and then turned and watched the last boxes being brought in from the sunlight.   
  
"If you'll just sign there, Mr Riley." Angel signed. "Thank you. Lord knows what you'll do with it all. Heavy stuff. Antiques?"   
  
"Antiques," Angel agreed, and the men disappeared. Angel turned to Whistler. "Crowbar?"   
  
Whistler threw it to him, and Angel levered it into a crack and pulled. The side of the crate fell off, and a cloud of dust one hundred years old flew out and engulfed them both. Whistler coughed and bent over trying to breathe. Angel merely reached in through the dust and pulled out a large, flat parcel wrapped in layers of sacking. Laying down on the ground, he began to slit the cords with a knife until the contents lay face up on the ground. Whistler stopped coughing and stared in amazement.   
  
"Jeee-sus, Angel. Is that …"   
  
"It's Monet," Angel said, frowning at the painting. "I'd forgotten I had it."   
  
"Monet? You mean, lily-man?"   
  
"The same." Angel picked the painting up and propped it to one side. "That's a pile for sale. I'll make a pile of things to keep here."   
  
Whistler sighed, and set to work.   
  
It took them all day. The crates contained forty paintings, furniture, sculptures and pottery, and a vast quantity of weapons ranging from swords to quarterstaffs. Most of the time Angel sorted methodically and emotionlessly, indicating a pile for the treasures Whistler uncrated. His control slipped only twice.   
  
It was midday, and the demon was complaining about food as he sorted weapons from a trunk. "Even a sandwich. Or a burger. Or anything." He pulled out a sword. "Sword, Angel."   
  
Angel turned, and then slowly crossed the floor and took the sword from Whistler, testing the weight and running a finger along the edge of the blade. Whistler watched him.   
  
"Keep or sell?" he asked.   
  
Angel did not seem to hear him, and Whistler repeated the question.   
  
"Get rid of this? Never." Angel swung the blade, glittering, up in the air. "This was a present from Darla."   
  
Whistler made a face. "Uh, Ang, man. Darla … sire …"   
  
The point of the sword was at his throat before he had even registered that Angel had moved, steady and just pricking his skin. Whistler had an urge to scream but restrained himself, and settled for staying very still instead.   
  
"I'm keeping this," Angel said. "If I ever meet Darla again I may use it to kill her. Until then … until then, it will remind me." He stepped back and put the sword down carefully on the keep pile. His companion rubbed his throat and nodded.   
  
"You do that, Angel. How about this axe?"   
  
They settled back into a silent rhythm, and it was evening before they got to the last trunk, which Angel forced open with a crowbar. The lid creaked open with a snarl of rusted hinges, and Whistler came to join Angel as he lifted off a layer of yellowed, disintegrating tissue paper.   
  
The trunk was full of clothes, packed closely between layers of paper and smelling strongly of mothballs. Without a word, Angel dropped to his knees in front of the box and began to slowly take out the clothes; elaborate and expensive suits in silk and velvet and fine linen, only a little discoloured and free of holes. Many of the outfits were red, or maroon, or black. Between the suits they found crisp linen and silk shirts. Angel unpacked the box without a word, making a pile of the clothes by his side on the floor. When it was empty he stood up, carried the trunk to the stack of empty crates on the other side of the warehouse, and returned to the clothes.   
  
The pile was alight before Whistler could react; one flick of a lighter and the stack of dry material was flaming. Angel stood and watched the clothes burn.   
  
"What are you doin'?" the half-demon managed, eventually.   
  
Angel turned blank eyes on him. "You want to know why I packed these? Because in a corner of my mind back then, I hoped beyond all hope that someone would take this soul away from me. That I might be able to put those clothes on again and go out again with Darla and Spike and Dru. Those clothes, Whistler, belonged to Angelus, and he's not someone I want to become ever again."   
  
Whistler nodded, and left the warehouse silently, leaving Angel standing silent vigil over the remnants of a former existence. 


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1_  
  
----  
  
"You know," the Slayer said conversationally to her Watcher, as they strolled through a cemetery, "sometimes I get this feeling someone's following me."   
  
The Watcher turned around and stared into the darkness, and Angel, fifty yards behind them, stopped in the shelter of a tree.   
  
"You should always act on your feelings, Miss Summers," the Watcher said gravely. "A Slayer has senses normal humans do not."   
  
"Hmm." She twirled a stake. "What do I do, shout 'anyone there?' behind me?"   
  
The Watcher raised his eyebrows. "Certainly not. You should maintain a low profile when on patrol so as not to alert vampires of your presence."   
  
"Well, I guess I'll leave it, then," she said. "If my stalker ever shows his face, I'll ask him why he's following me. Duck!"   
  
The Watcher ducked and the Slayer glided into action, dusting the vampire in under a minute. Angel smiled, watching her fluid movements with pleasure, noting the way her blonde hair floated in the air and caught the orange light from the streetlamp. He turned away as she dusted herself off and helped up her Watcher, and began to head back towards Whistler's in the other direction.   
  
* * *   
  
"News from the PTB," Whistler said, throwing a newspaper down on the coffee table. "The Slayer'll be off to Sunnydale in the fall. Something big's goin' down here in LA and then Fate is sending her …"   
  
"… to the Hellmouth," finished Angel, sitting up from the couch and pushing off the blanket covering him.   
  
"You know it's the Hellmouth?"   
  
"Everyone knows where the Hellmouths are," Angel said, standing up and stretching before going into a sequence of exercises. "Tibet. Peru. One in the mountains in southern Poland. An abandoned volcanic island in the Pacific. And Sunnydale, California; the only Hellmouth to be populated by humans and therefore the most popular of the lot."   
  
Whistler shrugged off his coat but left on his hat and went across to the kitchen to make coffee. "Well, ya do surprise me, Ang. Mr Knowledgeable."   
  
"Used to spend a lot of time reading," Angel admitted. "I had a collection on demonology. And convents."   
  
"For a vamp, that's disturbing."   
  
"I guess." Angel crossed to the kitchen and joined Whistler, pulling a bag of blood out of the fridge and pouring it into a mug. "Just one more thing to come to terms with. So when exactly is the Slayer going to Sunnydale?"   
  
"End of October," Whistler said, blowing steam off his coffee. "They wouldn't give me the details. But I do know that the Council's been informed and are arranging for a Watcher to be sent out there."   
  
"She already has a Watcher," objected Angel. "An old guy. He's staid, but good. Merrick, they call him."   
  
"Someone's been doing his homework," said Whistler, approvingly.   
  
"I've been following her," Angel said, drinking half his blood in one go. "She doesn't like Merrick and she doesn't really like Slaying, but she's good. Very good. She'll be okay."   
  
Whistler sat down on the sofa. "I've gotta move you to Sunnydale to do preliminary work. Find you a place to live. You can get talking to the underworld." He grinned. "Looks like you've made it out of Whistler School, Angel. Congrats."   
  
They clinked mugs and drank deeply.   
  
* * *   
  
"It gets little light," the agent said, switching on the lights, "but it's warm and spacious. No problems with damp."   
  
Angel looked around the apartment, noting the open spaces of the lounge and the neat way the kitchen and the bedroom all linked on to the main living area. He hung back at the door as the agent showed him a small bathroom, and eyed the windows high up near the ceiling.   
  
"How much?" he asked. "And when could I move in?"   
  
"As you see it's empty now," the agent said. "So whenever you like, really."   
  
"I'll take it," Angel decided. The agent beamed.   
  
"Do you want to sign the papers now? Have you got your identity and credit details?"   
  
Angel fished out the folder of forged documents Whistler had procured for him and found the papers the agent required; signed a lot of other papers and ended up fifteen minutes later with a set of keys and an empty apartment.   
  
He moved in a few days later, coming up from Los Angeles in a removal van full of carefully selected belongings he could not bear to part from. The new curtains he had ordered were already up, and it took the combined strength of Angel and the removal men only an hour to move his furniture into the apartment. He paid them off and sent them home and began to arrange the things, standing back every now and again to survey the effect. By the time he had the sculptures arranged to his liking and the paintings hung in the right places, it was dark outside, and he headed out to explore the town.   
  
Sunnydale proved to be a pretty place. The low, Mediterranean-style architecture of most of the buildings was attractive, and Angel found it hard to believe that he was standing on a Hellmouth. Yet he passed three cemeteries on his way into the centre of the place and as he grew nearer to the main street the sense of evil emanating from the Hellmouth itself was tangible.   
  
Whistler had given him the address for a demon bar in the town centre, a place called Willy's, and Angel went there first. Pushing open the door he discovered he was in a cellar; a rather dingy bar decorated in red with neon lights. Most of the clientele seemed to be overtly demon, and Angel counted three vampires in game face and five in human face to add to the total. In the corners, keeping themselves to themselves, were a few humans, and the thin, weasely-looking man serving drinks behind the bar was clearly human too. Angel crossed the room to him and sat down on one of the empty stools.   
  
"A pint of …" he eyed the bottle of blood behind the counter, "whatever that is, please."   
  
"Pig. Fresh today," the barman said.   
  
"That's fine." Angel watched as he poured the blood and pushed the glass across to him.   
  
"Five bucks."   
  
Angel took the money out and pushed it across to the barman. "You Willy, by any chance?"   
  
"Might be," the barman returned, cautiously. "You new in town?"   
  
"I might be," Angel replied. "A friend of mine passed on your name to me. I was wanting to know who else is here."   
  
Willy laughed shortly. "In Sunnydale? Everyone."   
  
"I doubt that," Angel said. "Twenty dollars. Just the names of the big players."   
  
"Why?"   
  
"I might want to pay them a visit. I might want to avoid them. I'm not paying you to think, Willy."   
  
The barman shrugged. "Been a few new arrivals recently."   
  
Angel drank some of the pig's blood. "Go on."   
  
"Okay, but you didn't hear this from me, right? Vamp called Luke. Big fella. Comes from out Georgia way or some such place. Some of his cronies."   
  
"Why?"   
  
Willy frowned. "Twenty bucks ain't getting you more than that."   
  
Angel nodded. "All right, that'll do for starters." He drained the glass of blood and stood up. "Any more information, Willy, just let it be known that Angelus is asking." He smiled, letting a hint of demon show through, and left.   
  
Outside in the cool air he stopped for a moment and let out unneeded breath. He remembered hearing about Luke, years ago in London, when he and Darla were discussing returning to Vienna to find the rest of their order. The plan had been dropped for more amusing pursuits, but Darla had spoken of her sire, the Master's latest favourite; a German vampire named Luke and nicknamed der Grausam, the Terrible. The Master had been lost years before, and now Luke's presence on the Hellmouth was a presage of something bad happening. Angel frowned to himself and set off towards one of the cemeteries he had passed on the way to find something to kill.   
  
His nights began to take on a routine. He had sourced a friendly butcher happy to sell him blood, and he would head out and stock up, returning briefly to the apartment to put the blood in the fridge and pick up a weapon, and then he spent the nights patrolling Sunnydale's cemeteries. He had discovered that the town had twelve burial grounds, and every night he would patrol them, staking new fledglings and tracking older vampires. Other demons were rarer, and Angel killed only five in his first fortnight in Sunnydale.   
  
A month into the routine, Whistler called to see him. Looking identical in his porkpie hat and loud clothes, the half-demon seemed impressed with Angel's apartment and even more impressed with his kill rate. "Tidy the place up for the Slayer. Nice job. Got news for ya from them up there," he gestured vaguely. "Watcher arrives next week. Going to be workin' at the high school. Librarian."   
  
"But what happened to the other Watcher, the one in LA?" Angel asked, cradling a glass of whisky. They were in one of the town's regular bars, in a corner booth.   
  
"Died. Got himself killed off by Lothos. Ever heard of Lothos?"   
  
Angel nodded. "Big reputation. I never met him."   
  
"You never will now," Whistler said with satisfaction. "Your Slayer toasted him and a whole crowd of his minions. Burnt down her school gym and got herself expelled. She'll be here in a few weeks. So, new Watcher." He pulled out photos. "Contact in London got me these."   
  
Angel picked up the pictures and looked down at the image of a not quite middle-aged man in a tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, glasses and a patterned tie.   
  
"Rupert Giles," Whistler said. "Aged 39. Curator at the British Museum, also Watcher from hereditary stock. Father, grandfather and great-grandmother were all Watchers and his father had an active Slayer too. Apparently a little staid and they expect him to fail."   
  
"He won't fail. She's not going to fail." Angel passed the pictures back.   
  
"What've you heard?" Whistler asked.   
  
"Something's being planned," Angel said, wearily. "They're siring more. I've heard Luke der Grausam is in town, and last I heard of him, he was hanging around the Master."   
  
"The Master?" Whistler said, frowning. "What, THE Master?"   
  
"As in my wrinkled, bat-faced grandsire, yes," Angel said. "I thought he was buried and dusted years back. But I think they could raise him, if they wanted to. A Harvest, or something. I've been reading up."   
  
"Wait." Whistler had his hand held up. "The Master, that Nest guy, he's your grandsire?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"They left that one out of the books," the half-demon said. "Lots about Darla, yadda yadda, little about her origins. Nice. So you reckon Harvest?"   
  
"Possibly."   
  
"And can you stop it?"   
  
Angel shrugged. "Not alone. I can't let myself be seen by Nest. We didn't get on. But … the Slayer … she might be able to stop it, when she comes."   
  
Whistler picked up his beer and drank deeply, putting the glass down with a sigh and wiping the liquid off his chin. "You have t' tell her, Ang. Be honest with the gal when she arrives. Okay?" He pushed his chair back and stood up. "Good luck. You've done it, though, man. You've changed."   
  
Angel watched him go.   
  
He kept patrolling. One night he came across a vampire nearing a century in age and managed, before he staked the hapless creature, to extract from it the information that Luke was indeed intending to raise the Master and then Harvest the inhabitants of Sunnydale to restore him to full strength. Angel sent the news to Los Angeles and heard back that the Slayer would arrive within a week.   
  
The Watcher, the Englishman Rupert Giles, moved into a small but attractive house set in a block near the school. Angel hung around outside and watched him move in one evening. Giles turned out to be taller and better built in real life than he had appeared from the photographs, and the owner of an astonishing number of boxes of books.   
  
Later that week, after he had watched Rupert Giles collapse in an armchair with a cup of tea and a leather-bound tome marked "Vampyres", Angel went to the Bronze. He had already marked out Sunnydale's club for teenagers as prime hunting territory, the dark alleys behind the building ideal for a quick kill or worse.   
  
Tonight, the Bronze was busy. Angel marked out the leading pack of teenagers, led by a tall, beautiful brunette in figure-hugging clothes and wearing a broad smile, and his gaze flicked from them around the room. He looked for the misfits and those who stood out in any way, knowing they would be the ones to be targeted. Over in a corner there was a trio of young people about the same age as the Slayer - a pair of gangly young men and a pretty redhead in a pink jumper. By the stairs, a short, embarrassed boy trying to join in a conversation. By the bar, another boy, blond and skinny, chatting to a girl in a miniskirt and high boots. Close to the band … Angel's attention turned abruptly back to the couple by the bar, and he slid backwards into the shadows.   
  
Darla. There was no doubting it. Though the hair had been shortened and straightened and was no longer piled on top of her head in elegant curls; though the skirt had been chopped by a third and the makeup altered to make her look younger, it was Darla. Angel slipped through the crowds and outside before she could turn and see him.   
  
Outside he stopped and considered his next move. He knew that if Darla set eyes on him, then all the vampires in Sunnydale would be after him. He leant back against a wall and closed his eyes, remembering the fury in her face as he had run from her, all those years before in a different land.   
  
From his hiding place he watched Darla come out of the club, an arm around the waist of her victim, smiling brightly and happily. Angel longed to follow her; torn between wanting to plunge a stake into her heart and tell her it was for abandoning him, 96 years before, and begging her to take him back. Instead, he stayed and watched as Darla and the boy disappeared off, laughing together over something, and then went in the other direction.   
  
Angel had been thinking over how to approach the Slayer. He had seen her, he knew her moves, he had memorised her face and heard her voice. But were he to appear from nowhere and tell her that the Harvest was coming, would she believe him? Now, as he was walking along the main street, hands in pockets and an eye out for vampires, something sparkling in a shop window caught his attention.   
  
He crossed the street and examined the window: a jeweller's, with attractive modern pieces, and hanging in the centre, a plain silver cross. It was the cross, with the light from a streetlamp above his head reflecting off it, that had caught Angel's eye. He clenched his fist and examined it, and then squared his shoulders and went into the shop.   
  
That day his dreams were full of pretty blondes - Darla's well-known face merging and blending with the big grey eyes of the Slayer into one bloody, erotic hallucination that woke him with a start sometime in the middle of the day. He climbed out of bed and went to the fridge for a packet of blood which he drank straight down, cold, before getting back in and drifting off to sleep again.   
  
He dreamt he was in a park, a sunny, green park on a beautiful day. Above his head the birds were singing and the light drifted down through green leaves in a dappled pattern. He was sitting under the tree with a comfortable weight against his shoulder, and when he glanced down he saw the silky blonde tresses of the Slayer.   
  
"This is nice," she said, softly.   
  
"Mmm," he found himself agreeing, squeezing the hand he held in his. Looking down he saw that she was wearing a claddagh ring too, the twin of his own. "This is perfect," he said.   
  
"Too perfect," the Slayer returned, breaking from his grasp and standing up. Her features twisted and contorted into the bald, wrinkled ones of the Master. "Angelus, well met!" the other vampire snarled. He screamed, and stood up too, and began to run from his grandsire. But the older vampire was gaining, gaining …   
  
Angel sat up again with a start, coming awake and realising that the scream was his own. This time he padded over to the shower and stood underneath the water for ten minutes before pulling on a pair of loose pants and going through some t'ai chi exercises. Outside it was getting dark.   
  
He was walking towards the Bronze, his senses on alert for Darla, when he felt quite another tingle down his spine. Turning, he saw on the other side of the street a figure he had followed already, back in Los Angeles, blonde hair shining and boots tapping on the pavement. The Slayer had arrived in Sunnydale.   
  
He crossed the street and fell into step behind her. She paused, once, and turned to look into the darkness, and Angel held himself still and unmoving until she began to walk again. She walked quicker now, and he lengthened his pace to keep up with her. Glancing over her shoulder, she disappeared down an alleyway, and Angel followed.   
  
She was nowhere to be seen. It was as if she had disappeared into thin air, and for a split second he thought he had been dreaming the whole long affair from first seeing Whistler, and that he would wake up cold and hungry and filthy in that alleyway in Manhattan. Then he felt the tingle down his spine again, and advanced into the alleyway.   
  
The blow sent any residual, stale air whistling out of Angel's body, and he landed flat on his back on the ground with an angry Slayer above him. At closer quarters, he could see she really was stunningly beautiful, and even more so when angry. He swallowed, and met her blazing eyes, and spoke.   
  
**The End (of the Beginning)**


End file.
